


To Walk The Wall

by stargatefan_archivist



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Gen, Missing Scene, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-08-26
Updated: 2002-08-26
Packaged: 2018-10-06 13:35:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10335794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargatefan_archivist/pseuds/stargatefan_archivist
Summary: Spoilers: Meridian, Redemption Part 2Summary: A visit to Washington, DC, from Jack O’Neill’s POV.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Yuma, the archivist: this work was originally archived at [Stargatefan.com](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Stargatefan.com). To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [StargateFan Archive Collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/StargateFan_Archive_Collection).

To Walk The Wall

##  To Walk The Wall

##### Written by Ecolea   
Comments? Write to us at [ecolea@wt.net](mailto:ecolea@wt.net)

  * Spoilers: Meridian, Redemption Part 2 
  * Summary: A visit to Washington, DC, from Jack O'Neill's POV. 
  * G [1st][A][CD] 



* * *

I walked the Wall today. Not like I haven't done it before, but always in formation, dressed in my Class A's in salute of my fallen comrades -- all 58,000. It's different this time. I walk the Wall alone this time, my eyes scanning names and dates. 

Here and there bunches of flowers are placed, some fresher than others, at the foot of the black granite memorial. I see a few families. Many with young children of their own. They are the sons and daughters of soldiers lost. They do rubbings, copying the name of the one they lost to take home as part of their own personal memorial. 

There's one middle-aged couple, maybe a few years older than I am, but I know the man is a veteran. He stands in one place, running his fingers down a list of names. He's crying inside, remembering his buddies, watching the battle lost as only his eyes can see with perfect clarity. Hearing cries of "Medic!" and the screams of the dying. Or worse, the complete silence of the dead.

I saved the world yesterday, did I tell you that? I've lost count of how many times. Doesn't matter, someone somewhere is probably keeping score. The President asked to see me. Thanked me personally, shook my hand and gave me another one of those medals I can never show anybody.

Not that I'd want to -- some of them are for things I never again want to recall. Still, from time to time, they invade my dreams, or confront me at the most inopportune of moments. Like this morning while I was shaving. Good thing I use electric or I'd have cut myself. Would've looked real silly meeting the President with a piece of toilet paper stuck to my chin.

The meeting took all of seven minutes -- he's on a tight schedule these days. I didn't mind, I was just glad to get it over with so I could see the cherry blossoms in bloom. I started walking, enjoying the sweet scent of spring and the sunshine on my face. I didn't mean to walk this far, or take that journey again. In fact, I bypassed the Wall completely to see old Abe, sitting in his larger than life chair -- thoughtful expression forever carved into his stone face.

I bought a sandwich from a street vendor and a bottle of beer then sat on the steps leading up to the monument thinking I really ought to get back to the mountain. But what's the point? We're closed for business until we get the Russian gate.

That's when I saw the monument. Not the Wall, but the dull glint of metal as the early afternoon sunshine struck the three soldiers, banded together, brothers in arms.

I tossed my trash into the nearest waste bin -- gotta keep DC clean for the tourists -- and wandered over to pay my respects.

It's an interesting depiction of men in the midst of war -- the lost expressions on their faces, the thousand-mile stare in their eyes. Boys too young to vote sent to fight a war they couldn't comprehend -- by politicians, not soldiers. A war we were winning, despite the fact everyone thinks we lost.

The thought made me turn my eyes to the Wall. The Black Wall of Shame some called it, which is why this poignant, well-hidden, and mostly forgotten traditional monument was commissioned.

At a distance, the Wall looks like a wide black V set into deep into the ground. It isn't very tall, but it's long. 58,000 plus names long.

So I walked the Wall as if drawn to it, because the force of that place is too great not to hear its call. And if one is going to pay homage, one ought to do it fully, and with the respect due to all that fought.

I started at the beginning -- 1964. We had people there before then, but clandestine operatives don't get listed on public walls, though the CIA has a place to carve the names of their fallen.

Funny how you don't really notice the gradual decline in the pavement as you move forward, seeing names, ages, and dates of death. For those who know what to look for you can tell when an entire platoon gave their lives. Nothing's alphabetical here -- in its own unique way the Wall is a profound chronicle of the Viet Nam War.

But the decline grows steeper as you move forward and the incline, which starts precisely in the middle of the war, slows you down, forcing you to confront the enormity of this nation's loss. It hits me every time. The seemingly endless black Wall of names, which once had faces, families and friends attached to them.

The vet sees me in my uniform and nods respectfully as do I. We have both seen combat and know the cost, but that doesn't make the loss of a comrade any easier to bear. By the time I reach the end, the incline has done its job. I feel the ache where I'm supposed to feel it. Right in the gut and in my heart. It reaches down to mark my battle hardened soul once more and I feel glad these men will never be forgotten.

It's only then that I think about the SGC. How many men and women have we lost? The number of our dead in this secret war to save humanity is classified, but if I want I have the clearance to see the body count.

I salute the Wall as if in formation, leaving as I came, silently walking.

There is no tribute to men like me. In all but name and rank I do not technically exist. The record of my life is an Eyes Only file. Those of us who specialized in Black Ops don't get their names carved into walls, nor do we get monuments. Our reward is the satisfaction of having done our duty. The cost of which is to be forever thankless, except for days like this one. When Presidents take a few moments out of their day to give us medals that can't be shown, can't be discussed and must forever remain a secret. I can live with that, I suppose.

It is only as I return to Andrews that I think of something General Hammond won't mind. Seems to me that somewhere in our underground world of barren walls and functional tunnels there ought to be enough space to add a modest memorial to honor our dead and missing. I know he's still out there, but I think Daniel would appreciate the thought.

**The End**

  


* * *

  


> Comments, flames, superfluous remarks and vicious character assassination may be cheerfully sent to: ecolea@wt.net

* * *

>   
> © August, 2002 The characters mentioned in this story are the property of Showtime and Gekko Film Corp.  
> The Stargate, SG-I, the Goa'uld and all other characters  
> who have appeared in the series STARGATE SG-1 together with the names,   
> titles and backstory are the sole copyright property of MGM-UA Worldwide Television, Gekko Film Corp, Glassner/Wright Double Secret Productions and Stargate SG-I Prod. Ltd. Partnership. This fanfic is not intended as an infringement upon those rights and   
> solely meant for entertainment. All other characters, the story idea and the story itself are the sole property of the author.   
> 

* * *

  



End file.
